


Slumpbuster

by wearemany



Series: Rookies [5]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2013-2014 NHL Season, Los Angeles Kings, M/M, Open Relationships, Post-Game(s), Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 21:46:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1320298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearemany/pseuds/wearemany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Maybe you just need a good fucking, eh?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slumpbuster

**Author's Note:**

> Can stand alone or be read within the Rookies ‘verse. Takes place during the Kings’ (first) five-game losing streak. I’m not saying I think sex can solve Richie’s scoring problems, but…

Mike is watching Friends with the sound off when Jeff comes to his room. Jeff always knocks the same way, three hard raps followed by a soft thump as he presses the heel of his hand against the door real quick, like somehow he can take back the noise he’s made.

It’s late, and Mike could easily be asleep, but Jeff knows that and he’s still there. Mike just wants to watch dumb American sitcoms until he passes the fuck out. Not that the next day or the one after that is likely to be any better at this pace.

He gets up and opens the door.

Jeff walks past Mike without asking to come in. He’s in his socks, probably staying on the same floor. Mike didn’t stick around after getting his key long enough to find out, just stomped up the six flights of stairs and took himself to bed.

Jeff stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed, and Mike’s as mad again as he was in Nashville, in Chicago, during that whole goddamned third period in Dallas, watching yet another fucking game fall to pieces.

“I don’t need a fucking pep talk, Carts.”

He knows what people are saying about his game, how Darryl’s getting grilled about his mistakes. He doesn’t need to look at a box score to know how badly he’s been playing, and he sure as hell doesn’t need Jeff to come in here and give a speech about how things will get better. Maybe they will or maybe they won’t.

Jeff doesn’t flinch at Mike’s tone, shoulders loose and easy like he’s just killing time. That’s not a particularly good sign for how things are about to go.

Jeff says, low and steady, “Maybe you just need a good fucking, eh?”

A sharp twinge shoots down Mike’s spine, settling in his lower back like an ache, like an answer. A hot rush of blood floods his hearing, burning behind his eyes.  

“I don't need a loser fuck,” he snaps.

Jeff’s running high, at a point a game since before Christmas, just like he’s supposed to. Jeff’s going to go to Sochi, and no one’s even going to protest that Mike was snubbed, least of all Mike. He doesn’t deserve it, especially not when put up against Jeff or Drew or even Brownie.

He’s got a fistful of championship rings and the sooner he admits to himself he’s past his prime the easier those seven years he’s got left on his contract will go. Maybe they’ll win another Cup before he’s done. Maybe he’ll even help.

“You’re not a loser, you asshole,” Jeff says, closer now.

“Well, I’m not some fucking slumpbuster, either. You can find some other way to save the team from our shitty streak.”

Jeff grips Mike’s waist. “I’m not worried about the team.”

Towards the end in Philly, Lavvy breathing down his neck, media up in his face every night, everyone echoing the same doubts, Jeff had come to his condo like this. Pressed Mike up against the inside of the door, waited until Mike sunk to his knees. The salty sludge tracked in on their winter boots had soaked through Mike’s jeans, grit digging through denim to pinch his skin as Jeff fucked his mouth.

His jaw hurt after but he felt better for it, settled instead of resigned. Ready to keep fighting through the rest of the season. Lindsey is hardly all sweetness and roses in bed, but even at her most wild it’s never been like that.

Jeff hooks his fingers into Mike’s sweats, tilts his head down to bump their heads together. He’ll wait, Mike knows, for Mike to decide if he wants this. How he wants it.

Mike always wants this, always, Jeff a constant hum under his skin even if it’s been months since they really touched. He wants it like he always wants to win, but right now he can barely remember how either works. He’s so fucking broken he doesn’t know where to start.

He drops his forehead to Jeff’s chest, closes his eyes against the smooth cotton of Jeff’s shirt and chokes down a shaky breath. Jeff strokes his back, soothing and incendiary all at once. His breath is warm on Mike’s ear. “Want me to fuck you on your hands and knees?”

Mike’s legs buckle and Jeff catches him around the ribs, easing him to the floor.

“Good,” he says, leaning down for a hard kiss that forces Mike to stretch his neck up. Jeff rubs his fingers against the grain of Mike’s beard, roughly pushes a thumb into Mike’s mouth and holds it open. Mike pants wetly into Jeff’s palm.

“Push your sweats down but don’t take them off,” Jeff says, pulling away, and in three long strides he’s across the room, digging into Mike’s bag to find the lube.

Mike strips off his shirt and shoves his pants down. He focuses on how his fingers are spread out wide on the carpet. He can hear Jeff digging through the chips and candy in the mini-bar until he finds the box of condoms. The light of the TV flickers. The hotel is quiet, and Mike bites down gently on his bottom lip, wondering whether he should ask Jeff to gag him.

Jeff’s body always runs hot and when he kneels behind Mike, Mike shivers, a little whimper escaping. “You need something in your mouth?” Jeff asks, and probably Mike does, but he doesn’t want any of this to be easy.

He shakes his head and Jeff pushes wet fingers in. Mike knows what it feels like to be fucked sweet and slow by Jeff and that’s the last thing he needs right now. He lets his head hang loose on his neck and spreads his legs a little more. The heels of his hands are already raw and tender when Jeff holds his ass open and shoves his cock in.

“Shut up,” Jeff hisses as Mike moans, and he’s trying, he doesn’t mean to wake up the whole fucking floor or show up for breakfast looking like his face met a meat grinder. So he’s digging teeth desperately into his arm but the noise is coming from somewhere so deep inside he doesn’t even know which muscle controls the sound.

Jeff thrusts deep and Jesus _fuck_ Jeff’s cock is big and Mike’s palms are on fire from how he keeps skidding across the short carpet, trying to keep himself from falling on his face. His sweatpants are bunched up around his thighs, but even through the fabric he knows his knees are red from friction, too. He’s gonna look like a guy who spent some time on all fours.

Mike’s dick bounces uselessly against his stomach and he tries and fails again to swallow a loud whine when Jeff’s hand skids through the sweat on his hip and almost, almost, just barely grazes the back of his balls. “Fuck,” he grunts, “please, Jeff, come on—”

Jeff gnaws at the scruff of Mike’s neck, fucks into him in stuttered gasps that knock Mike forward and onto his elbows. He groans against Mike’s back and bites down when he comes, wrapping an arm around Mike’s chest and holding him tight. There’s a moment where Mike thinks pathetically that he might come like that, just from Jeff’s cock in his ass and a hard hug keeping him close, and then Jeff pulls out and flips Mike onto his back.

His hand is warm around Mike’s dick and the nerves in Mike’s knees are flush with pinpricks of relief and when he comes all over his chest he’s not even sure which feels better.

Mike’s head flops to the side, hips splayed, arms sprawled. Jeff sits back against the bed, laughing at him, and all Mike can do is smile. He feels like he’s been thrown into a breaking wave and battered around for a few spin cycles. It’s fucking fantastic.

He can see a sliver of the TV screen from where he’s lying on the floor, local news replaying the ball drop in Times Square. They’d all sung to Jeff on the plane at midnight but Mike was too busy sulking to go back and say it properly.

He fumbles out a hand and finds Jeff’s thick thigh. “Hey,” he says. “Happy birthday." Jeff laughs again.

“Gonna be a good year, I think,” Jeff says, and Mike nods.

**Author's Note:**

>  _slumpbusting_ : when an athlete finds the most unattractive person possible to have sex with in hopes of breaking a losing streak; most often attributed to baseball player Mark Grace, whose definition is way more sexist than the above.
> 
>  
> 
> More ramblings at my [Tumblr](http://dazzlingheroes.tumblr.com).


End file.
